The Last Hunter: Collected Edition (Antarktos Saga #1-5)

I grow tired almost immediately. But I focus on the true voice of Tobias, urging me onward, and I push forward. My effort must be considered a crime in this place, because the weight on my shoulders becomes palpable. I can feel something—a force—pushing down on me. Holding me back. Like I’m in a dream.

Maybe that’s it, I think. Maybe this is all a dream?

In a strange sort of way, it would make sense. After passing through the gate, into the darkness, the traveler falls asleep. Then maybe someone, some kind of caretaker, drags your sleeping body deeper underground where aging is slowed so much it’s actually stopped. And then, in the pliable world of the sleeping mind, the prisoner is forced to grapple with his own self-doubt, fears and weakness. This place is barren. All stone and orange sky. My mind could have easily conjured the image.

And if this is all in my mind, I can control it. I once read about something called “lucid dreaming.” Essentially, the dreamer recognizes they’re dreaming and then controls the dream, bending it to his will. People routinely realize they’re in a dream, but typically wake very quickly when they do. Lucid dreamers use various techniques to stay in the dream. Dream spinning (spinning in circles) or physical contact—rubbing your hands together or touching the ground—supposedly works well.

But I’ve also learned to control the reality my mind creates thanks to Xin. So, I should be able to manage it here.

I pause my running. Each labored breath accentuates the cramp twisting in my side.

It certainly feels physical.

But dreams can, too. So I focus on the world around me and try to change it.

Nothing happens.

Wait, I think. I’m warmer. Then I realize that I only feel slightly warmer from running. Everything else is the same. Can’t say I’m surprised. This might all be in my mind, but inside Tartarus, whatever it is, I can’t control things. And I can’t wake up.

The angry weight settles heavier. It strikes so suddenly that I pitch forward. I catch myself against the wall of the gorge. My foot lands hard, but not on solid stone.

There is a squishing sound as something lukewarm oozes up between my bare toes. The mush gives way to something hard and splintery. I feel, more than hear, the tiny things snap under my weight. All of this happens in a fraction of a second. Before I’ve put all of my weight down, I flinch back, and fall over.

The gravity inside Tartarus seems to increase suddenly. I fall hard, harder than I should from a standing position. And my body lacks the strength to slow me down. I hit the stone floor hard, knocking the air from my lungs. I wheeze and for a moment, I fear I won’t be able to catch my breath.

I can’t die, I tell myself. Relax. Breathe. Focus.

My chest expands a little more with each breath and my thoughts clear. My foot is wet. I stepped in something. After looking at my elbows for wounds and finding none, I push myself up and draw my foot in close. There is a smear of thick red fluid on the sole.

Blood.

But it’s not mine. There’s too much and I don’t see a wound.

Well, that’s not entirely true. There seems to be a large splinter of something jabbed between my first and second toes. It’s a small, curved spear of white. I take hold of it and tug gently. The inch long splinter slides cleanly out. A bead of blood emerges from the wound, but that’s it. I can’t even feel the sting. I’m far too cold for that.

I look at the spine up close. Is it a quill? No, I think, it’s not barbed. Images of high school science books and dissection diagrams come to mind. It looks like a rib. Like a mouse rib.

Curiosity pulls me up onto my hands and knees. I lean forward searching for the spot where my foot fell.

It’s not hard to find.

The small body is surrounded by a syrupy pool of blood and other, oddly colored bodily fluids. As for the creature, I can’t say what it is. Or was. It’s been brutalized. Torn to pieces. And it looks like the whole thing is here. Four legs. Two small arms. It must have walked like an insect, but also had functional arms. The skin is green, and slick with slime, like a frog.

The torso looks like it was torn open, not cut, and the skin has been peeled back. The organs are gone. I find them splattered against the wall nearby, glued to the surface by the drying fluids. The exposed ribcage has been snapped open on either side, the small spiked ends pointing skyward. One rib is missing.

I look at the small rib clutched between my fingers, then toss it down on the ground and turn my attention back to the mutilated corpse. The lungs, like the other organs, have been torn out. They rest on the cavern floor nearby. When I see the heart, I have no doubt that whatever did this was evil. The grape-sized heart rests in the center of the exposed ribs, still attached to the body by several arteries. But the organ has been crushed, and burst open.